Which Art In Hope (Spooner Federation Saga Book 1)

by Francis W. Porretto

  And the evening and the morning were the first day.

  Epilogue: Which Art In Hope

  "He's finally fading, isn't he?" Teresza said.

  Tadeusz Leschitsyn let his stethoscope from Armand's chest and nodded solemnly. "Hours at most. It's not treatable, you know."

  Teresza grinned ruefully. "Old age never has been."

  "Did he ever tell you why?"

  She shook her head.

  The doctor gathered up his implements, dropped them into his bag, closed it and rose to his full height.

  "In a way, I suppose I should be grateful. There hasn't been a death from advanced age in at least thirty years. No one of my generation has ever seen terminal senescence close up."

  The door to the bedroom creaked open, admitting Elyse, Charisse, and Valerie. They moved cautiously toward the bedside to gaze down upon their sleeping kinsman. Leschitsyn stepped back and waited, as if uncertain whether his work there was finished.

  Teresza beckoned him to her, escorted him out of the bedroom, and closed the door behind them. They stood alone in the broad hallway.

  "Was there something else you wanted to ask, Doctor?"

  Leschitsyn looked abashed. "I don't know if I have the right."

  "Ask anyway."

  "Why did you allow this?"

  Teresza's mouth fell open. "Allow? Doctor, do you know who that is? No one's ever allowed Armand Morelon anything in his life!"

  "But..." Leschitsyn fell silent. He could not keep his eyes from traveling Teresza's flawless face and perfect figure. She smiled.

  "I know what you're thinking, Doctor. It's all right. He made his choice long ago. I did try to talk him out of it. We all did. He was adamant. He was equally adamant that I have the Hallanson-Albermayer series. And so here we are. But I have a surprise for you."

  Leschitsyn's brow wrinkled.

  "I won't survive him by more than a few hours myself."

  It was the doctor's turn to gape in astonishment. "Rothbard, Rand, and Ringer, why? Miss Chistyakowski, you can't --"

  "Please! Mrs. Morelon, thank you. I could never want to bear another name. But I'm not going to take my own life, if that's what you were thinking. If we skip all the subtleties of genetic coding and psionic bonding, which we must since I don't really understand them myself and my father isn't here to elucidate them for us, it comes down to this: I can't live without him. Not won't. Can't."

  Her gaze moved to the closed bedroom door. "In a way, he is my life. I was genetically engineered, designed by the greatest genesmith in Hope history to seek out the finest specimen of manhood on this planet and bond myself to him permanently. That's what I did. But the bond is lethal if severed. It wasn't intended to be. My father had no idea how potent his gift to me really was, until our bond was irrevocable."

  She massaged the tight place in her chest and drew a deep, cleansing breath. "If we'd followed the usual course, he, too would have had the longevity series, and we'd go on for as long as we like. But other...considerations intervened."

  Leschitsyn searched her face unabashedly. "You don't appear entirely unhappy about it."

  "I'm not." She smiled. "We've had a fine life together, filled with adventure, accomplishment, and love. I've had seventy-four years to luxuriate in the knowledge that the best man ever born among men was mine to love and cherish, and to wallow in the love he felt for me. We've worked, traveled, learned, and grown. We've reared a fine daughter, who's taken a fine man and born fine children in her turn. I wouldn't trade my seven decades with Armand for a million years with a lesser man, even if it were biologically possible. Glad did we live, and gladly we will die, and may we be remembered fondly by those we've loved.

  "So when Charisse calls you tomorrow morning, Doctor, you will find two bodies in that bed. One will have died of old age. The other will probably have to be listed as 'unknown natural causes.' Don't let it weigh on you any longer than it must."

  She escorted him down the stairs to the mansion's front doors, bade him farewell, and returned to her husband's bedside. Elyse, Charisse, and Valerie were still there, gazing down upon Armand as if unable to tear their eyes away. Teresza sidled up to her daughter and took her hand.

  "I don't think he'll wake again," she murmured.

  Valerie nodded. "I wanted to say goodbye and tell him how much I've always loved him. Looks like the chance has passed."

  Teresza squeezed her hand gently. "It's all right, dear. He's always known. Do you know where Althea might be?"

  "Downstairs with Cam."

  "Would you bring her up here, please?"

  Valerie Morelon looked sharply at her mother. "Why?"

  "Please, dear? I have my reasons."

  Valerie nodded and departed. Elyse and Charisse watched her go, then looked questioningly at Teresza, who said nothing.

  Presently Valerie returned with Althea Morelon in tow. Teresza's youngest granddaughter was perfection made flesh: six feet tall, with flawless skin, shining hazel eyes, auburn hair that cascaded to her shoulders, and a figure that every other woman on Hope would envy. She moved with the grace of a dancer-athlete. Best of all, she bore the marks of an emerging genius, a polymath who would conquer whatever field she might address, and a penchant for adventure that would inevitably demand broader expression than a single world could give it.

  Teresza beckoned the young woman to her, bade her look upon her dying grandfather.

  "Armand and I have left you something," she murmured. "There are no conditions or stipulations on it. It's yours to do with as you please. But I...he wanted to leave an idea for you to ponder. You know about Project Omega, of course?"

  Althea nodded, her expression puzzled.

  "It's now been nearly fourteen hundred years since the last intelligible transmissions. They continue to scan the galactic disk, of course, but when there's no signal to interpret, there's no way to reach a conclusion. Which means that we won't know what happened unless someone actually goes there to find out.

  "You have great and versatile gifts, dear. I suggest you put them to two things: physics and finance. Our bequest to you is only a start. You'll need much more. But you'll have time to amass it, and to crack the lightspeed barrier that compels us merely to speak into the night and strain to hear an answer. If you do that, when the time comes, you'll be the one to solve the riddle of Earth. Will you consider that, when we're gone?"

  The young woman lowered her eyes to the bed where Armand lay. "Did Grandpere really want that for me?"

  "Among other things, dear. Mostly, he wanted to watch you become what you are. In that regard, his wildest dreams have been fulfilled. Think about it, please?"

  "I will, Grandmere."

  Teresza kissed her, watched her depart, and turned to the others.

  "I think it's time I joined my husband."

  They each hugged and kissed her, whispered goodbye, and departed with tears leaking. Teresza waited for the door to close, then stretched out beside Armand and took him carefully into her arms.

  "Lord," she whispered, "I've tried my best. I've spread your word as widely as I could. I've striven always to do as you would have me do. If I have really done your will, then wherever you're about to send my husband, might I ask that you also send me? For your son said that in your house there are many mansions, and I would not be parted from Armand, even now."

  There was no answer. There never was. She wasn't disturbed. She closed her eyes, drew herself gently against Armand's frail form, and whispered for the final time.

  "Father, which art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven. Give us day by day our daily bread. And forgive us our sins; as we forgive those who have sinned against us. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil, Amen."

  Then, silence.

  ***

  In the night Armand and Teresza Morelon passed from mortal life. Tadeusz Leschitsyn found them exactly as Teresza had foretold. It is not given to us
to know in what sphere they dwell. We cannot know whether they're together, or separated by a gulf exceeding that which divides Hope from its sister worlds, and Idem from Its fellow spirits. We know only that they are departed from us.

  Beyond that, as has always lain beyond the knowledge of men, there is only hope.

  -- The End --

  We will return to Hope, the community of Jacksonville, and young Althea and her kin in Freedom’s Scion.

  ====

  Francis W. Porretto is an engineer, fictioneer, and commentator. He operates the Liberty’s Torch Website (http://bastionofliberty.blogspot.com), a hotbed of pro-freedom, pro-American, pro-Christian sentiment, where he and his Esteemed Co-Conspirators hold forth on every topic under the Sun. You can email him at fran.porretto@yahoo.com. Thank you for taking an interest in his fiction.